“Something like that.”
Charming.
He pulls out a comm from his vest, low and clipped. “Rhett here. We’ve got a civvy on the ridge.”
Civvy. Like I’m some lost Girl Scout.
“I’m not a civvy,” I snap. “I’m an adult woman conducting an unsanctioned solo investigation. Totally normal.”
“Totally reckless.”
I cross my arms, even as my teeth start to chatter. “You don’t understand. My sister—she was taken. Two years ago. Hanover Falls. This is all connected.”
Something flickers across his face. Recognition? Maybe. Or indigestion. Hard to tell with a man whose emotional range is locked tighter than Fort Knox.
“You’re coming with me,” he says.
“Oh no. I’ve seen this movie. You drag me into your murder cabin and I wind up on a milk carton.”
“I don’t murder civilians,” he growls.
“Cool. Can I get that in writing?”
He grabs my arm—not rough, but firm enough to saystop talking—and starts hauling me back through the woods. I stumble after him, breath puffing white clouds into the air, brain racing.
I don’t know who this guy is. Or what kind of place I just stumbled onto.
But one thing is suddenly, terrifyingly clear:
I’ve officially crossed a line I can’t uncross.
And when we break through the trees and I see the armed men waiting at the perimeter of a camouflaged gate, I realize?—
This isn’t just some backwoods security gig.
I’ve walked straight into a war zone.
And someone inside… knows exactly who I am.
TWO
RHETT
I’ve stared down the barrel of a sniper rifle with my heartbeat steady as a metronome. I’ve been parachuted into black zones with nothing but a satellite phone and a rusty combat knife. I’ve even played poker with Harlan when he’s in one of his moods.
But this?
This... is unnerving.
Because the woman currently taking up space in our command center looks like she walked straight out of a rom-com and into a war room.
She’s got this wild mane of brown curls barely contained by a sparkly pen sticking out of it like a flag of surrender. Oversized hoodie. Leggings that are probably supposed to be for lounging but do criminal things to a man’s focus. And boots that look like they’ve kicked a few stubborn doors in.
And she talks. A lot.
"Do you guys have, like, a vending machine? Or snacks? Or caffeine? Because I’ve been on the road for fourteen hours, andif I don’t get some coffee soon, my blood is going to turn to dust and I will literally disintegrate on your ugly concrete floor."
She says all that in one breath. Then gives me a look like it’s my personal fault we don’t stock a Starbucks in the lobby.